


The Fair and Open Face of Heaven

by Razzaroo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-10-01 00:16:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20455937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzaroo/pseuds/Razzaroo
Summary: Hawke and Sebastian don't have an easy love story





	The Fair and Open Face of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WolffyLuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/gifts).

> I pinched the title from John Keats; it's taken from a line in his poem To One Who Has Been Long in City Pent
> 
> Big thank you to [handersmyheart/cullenlovesmen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/handersmyheart)for taking a look at this; you saved it from my Too Much Gene to be sure

Garrett is not a man who knows freedom.

It’s true that he’s never been in a Circle, but magic is its own kind of cage. He’s been shackled by responsibility for years, by everything he shouldn’t have had to shoulder alone in the wake of his father’s death, weights that his mother refused to carry. After four years, Kirkwall has tangled itself around him, reaches to choke him; its thorns cut his wings and keep him grounded.

The aftermath of the duel with the Arishok turns his estate, which should have been his safe haven, into a new kind of prison. He’s confined to bed until the wound in his belly heals, spoiled by his own mistakes, his own mad desperation to bring it to a satisfactory end. He finds himself always dreaming, even when he thinks he’s awake, and Anders gives him something that dulls his connection to the Fade when he says he sees monsters in the walls, beckoning with long claws. It does very little to dull the pain but it makes him sleep, dark dreamless sleep. His waking hours are hazy, undercut by the constant ache from his wound, and he watches the window. 

“Hawke?”

“Mmph.”

A pause, a step and then again, “Hawke?”

He knows that voice. That’s a safe voice. He groans into his pillow before trying to sit, knowing how he looks, scruffy and unshaven, ghost of what he used to be. He slumps against the headboard and flicks the empty bottle on the table beside him.

“Anders told me,” he says, and his voice feels too thick for his mouth, “that this is meant to stop me dreaming.”

Sebastian smiles, though it’s strained and sad, “You flatter me, Hawke.”

He’s dressed in his Chantry robe, an item of clothing that Garrett harbours a secret fondness for because of how it softens his edges. He wants to stand, to greet Sebastian properly, but he feels something pull whenever he moves too much, a spike of pain that always makes Anders’ brow crease and gets more bed rest added to his calendar. Instead, he beckons to Sebastian, an invitation into this stifling world he’s found himself in. 

“Why are you here today?” he asks as Sebastian sits on the edge of the bed, “Thought you were busy for the Chantry’s feast day.”

“I make time for my friends, Hawke.” Sebastian’s face falls, “You’re bleeding.”

Hawke looks down to see the red starting to soak the bandages around his middle, “Less than I have been.”

“Do you want me to get Anders?”

“No, it’s…” Garrett presses one hand over the injury, “I want it to scar.” He gestures to the bandages that Anders has left, “Could you…?”

Sebastian stands and retrieves the bandages, along with a jug of water that Bodahn had left in the morning. 

“Let me help, Hawke,” he says, “It’s the least I could do.”

And Garrett lets him, because he’s in no position to argue, because he knows that he  _ really  _ can’t do it himself. Sebastian’s hands are gentle; he coaxes, he doesn’t push, though Garrett knows how much force they can have behind them. He says so and Sebastian smiles, almost laughs.

“The Chantry tries to teach balance,” he says, “Softness for some, harshness for others; whatever is deserved.”

“And what do I deserve?” Garrett asks as Sebastian ties the bandages off. He wonders, because he does not feel like a kind man, because his wound is poisoned with his own reckless attempt at blood magic. There must be a reason the Maker has always caged him so.

“Softness, Garrett,” Sebastian says, and he speaks the name like a secret, something to be kept between these four walls. His eyes are very blue, “Always.”

* * *

Eventually, Garrett heals. The Arishok has left a scar, but so has his mother and his father and Bethany, one stacked on top of the other. There’s only Carver and Gamlen left now; Carver barely writes and Gamlen can’t look at him. Neither of them are there when Garrett is officially anointed Champion. They can’t cut the jesses away, can’t stop more ties entangling him. It’s one more thing he never asked for, the burden of his family now replaced with the burden of an entire city state.

The ceremony takes place in the viscount’s keep, the only place apart from the Chantry large enough to house such a crowd. He’s glad for them, despite their strangeness, because of how they mask the blood that still stains the floor; he knows how much of it is his. He kneels before the viscount’s empty throne and Meredith’s sword hovers dangerously close to his neck. He remembers, in Lothering, a farmer killing hawks because of the threat he saw to his animals; he remembers, not long after, a group of nobles passing with the same birds in their retinue, proud hunting animals carried as symbols of status.

His name suddenly feels like an omen, sour in his mouth. 

As soon as a chance to escape comes, he takes it. He steps out to the front of the keep, just out of sight of the Templars that Meredith has had stationed at the door. The air was thick with the salt smell of the sea and the promise of a coming storm.

“Are you all right, Champion?”

Garrett turns to meet Elthina, making sure that anything uncertain is scrubbed from his face, “I just don’t do well in crowds.”

“I see. I only ask because of how often Sebastian has been in your company recently. Your wounds must have been severe to take up his attention so much.”

_ I was impaled  _ Garrett thinks but doesn’t say. Sebastian finds him more worthy of attention than the Maker. It’s enough. It has to be.

“He’s a friend, and I asked for him,” he says. Elthina’s mouth purses and disapproval flits across her face, “Besides, it’s a priest’s duty to tend to the dying.”

Almost immediately, her face softens and smooths out into understanding. She reaches out and rests her hand on his arm.

“It was a cruel thing that was asked of you,” she says, “The Maker, in his grace, let you stay with us so we could offer some thanks.”

“It didn’t feel like grace,” Garrett says. He gives credit for his survival to Anders and the wonders he works; to Bodahn’s tireless care; to Sebastian filling his heart with life again. He shrugs, “But I suppose you’re welcome. I didn’t really do it for you.”

“No, I know. The gratitude stands, regardless.”

They both stand quiet for a moment, listening to the night birds and the far off crash of the waves. It’s Elthina who speaks first.

“He wanted to be here tonight,” she says, “But with the emissary from Starkhaven, he’s safer in the Chantry.”

“Finally, something we agree on.”

“We both have his best interests at heart, Champion. I hope you know this.”

“No, Grand Cleric.” Garrett looks at her and, finally, he’s caught her off guard. Over the sea, lightning flashes, “I don’t know.”

* * *

Secrets are not strangers in Garrett’s life. He’d had to keep a part of himself hidden for so long that they’ve become second nature. His life is a game of pretend but it’s never suited him; he pretended not to be a mage, until it suited him to stop; he pretended to be interested in marriage, until his mother died and it stopped being presented as an option; he pretends not to be in love with Sebastian Vael, until they’re together in private and he can practically glow with it. 

“Elthina won’t be happy,” Sebastian says. He’s sitting on Garrett’s bed, watching the rain lash the window, “That I’m here, I mean.”

“I’m sure that if you didn’t stay, she’d have words to say about being out on these streets in this weather.” Garrett locks his door, the only way to keep Sandal out of the room, “Damned if you, damned if you don’t.” He draws the curtains, “No one will see you. If anyone asks, you spent the night in the guest room.”

The world condenses down to the two of them. Sebastian’s content to curl in Garrett’s arms, tucked up against the shelter of him. He clings like someone who has never known touch, like he’s trying to fit a lifetime’s fill into one night. Garrett learns the shape of him in the dark, loves him best when there’s no eyes to see them.

* * *

After that night, Elthina keeps Sebastian on a tighter rein. Whenever Garrett drops into the Chantry, he’s met by a sister with the looks and attitude of a wall, always giving him answers in the same vein: Sebastian is in seclusion; Sebastian is taking confessions; Sebastian is trying to clean the stains out of the tiles from the  _ last  _ time you and your friends were here, Champion. 

When he’s finally able to see Sebastian again, they’re crammed together in one of the cells kept for the clergy’s own private prayers. It was Sebastian’s idea, expressed in a note passed from him to Fenris, to Orana and finally to Garrett’s hands. 

“Why here?” he whispers, his back pressed up against the wall, Sebastian pressed up against his chest.

“Because this is the only place we’re guaranteed privacy,” Sebastian says, “It’s a violation for the Grand Cleric to listen in on the prayers of the clergy.” He pauses, “And if anyone else hears, they can’t say anything because it can be turned against them.”

“Sneaky. I like it.” Garrett links his fingers with Sebastian’s, “Elthina doesn’t let you out to play anymore. Is it something I’ve done?”

“No, not you. She thinks I’m distracted from the Maker’s path.”

“Ah. So it is me, she just doesn’t say it outright.” 

“With my past, I know why she’s concerned.” Sebastian sighs, “I just wish she’d trust that nothing happened.”

Sebastian is not someone who’s suited to being kept. He fidgets against his bars, he has for as long as Garrett has known him. He still doesn’t know why Sebastian keeps coming back to Elthina, considering how she tries to cage him, but he’s in no position to argue; he does, after all, keep coming back to Kirkwall.

“I’m not Grand Cleric,” he says, “but I think the Maker would approve of stopping bandits and slavers. If the Maker has different ideas for you, he’s really not making use of your skills.”

“I’ll survive, Garrett. Elthina will get tired of me being underfoot soon; it’s happened before.”

“You shouldn’t have to  _ survive;  _ you  _ live  _ here.” Garrett lifts Sebastian’s hand to his lips and brushes a kiss against his knuckles, “If I’m part of the issue, I’ll stay away for now. I’m not always home but my door is always open for you.” 

Sebastian lets go of him and reaches for the door, “I’ll come. When I can.”

* * *

When Kirkwall becomes stifling, he finds a release with Anders.The pair of them go out onto the Wounded Coast, two wind battered mages who can’t untangle themselves from the city of chains. With just the two of them, Garrett ought to feel more vulnerable but Anders is a force of nature, a wildfire contained in a body of skin and bone, and Garrett trusts him almost more than he trusts himself.

“We could just keep going,” he says, “On and on to the next city state, just the two of us.”

“We could,” Anders says, “But I have unfinished business and you would never leave Sebastian behind. I can’t say I blame you.”

“Really?”

“Remember I only came to Kirkwall because I couldn’t leave Karl.”

“Do you ever worry that you’ll be stuck there?”

“No,” Anders says. He stops and considers Hawke, his eyes bright in the sun, “I don’t. And you won’t either.” He sinks to sit amongst the waving grass, turning to watch the sky. There’s something longing in his face, “Mages like you aren’t meant for places like Kirkwall. You’re meant for the palaces of kings and storybook pages and all the things a hawk is meant to see.”

He frowns, as if he realises just how un-Anders that had sounded. Garrett stays quiet and looks at him,  _ really  _ looks at him, as if seeing him for the first time; he takes in the feathers on the other man’s coat and the way he looks at the sky and how Anders’ eyes sometimes seem more gold than they do brown. 

He never  _ has  _ asked how Anders made it from Ferelden so quickly.

“You could show me.”

“Show you?” Anders raises an eyebrow.

Garrett points to the sky, “Show me what a hawk is meant to see.”

They take the Wounded Coast, the two of them, because it’s easy to tackle the world when you’re not wearing your own face or your own skin. Anders shows him how to pull the Fade together into a cloak of feathers, how to  _ become  _ a hawk, what it is to really fall and then fly. For one day, it’s like he’s back with Malcolm, learning the joys of magic instead of just its dangers. 

It’s a taste of freedom that he holds in his mouth when they inevitably return to Kirkwall, to their respective cages. Garrett makes his way through Hightown and kicks pebbles into the gutters, listening to the Chant of Light echoing across the quarter. His head fills with it, the Canticle of Transfigurations rubbing against the whistle of the wind and a sparrowhawk’s cry.

* * *

“We have to stop meeting like this.”

In the narrow space of the tower stair, they can’t help but touch. Surrounded by cold stone, Sebastian’s warmth is welcoming; Garrett wants to lean into him but they both have business, always in different directions. Still, Sebastian smiles.

“I only wish it were planned,” he says, “Then perhaps we could talk longer.” He holds up a roll of vellum, “Sadly, this does need to be sent urgently, so the rookery is my priority.”

He goes to move past and Garrett catches hold of his arm, burying his face in the crook of Sebastian’s elbow, pressing a kiss there. It feels heavy as a sacrament. Sebastian’s fingers curl against Garrett’s neck, brushing the barest touch against his skin. 

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers, aching. When he looks up, Sebastian’s face is turned away.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian says as Garrett lets him go, “Things will be back to normal soon.” He traces Garrett’s jaw, “I promise.”

“Things have never been normal between us.”

Sebastian looks at him then and his expression is pained, “I’ve disappointed you.”

And there it is. Cruelty when Garrett doesn’t mean it, making Sebastian feel as if he has fallen short somehow, as if he has failed in some way, when that couldn’t be further from the truth. It wounds him to think that Sebastian feels he’s not good enough.

“Not you,” Garrett says, “Never you. You’re trying; that’s all anyone could ever ask.”

* * *

When things change, Garrett’s not aware of it until it’s on top of him. It makes sense; it is, after all, Sebastian’s speciality to be unseen, to be what is least expected. He obscures the air and trips up those who don’t expect him with silver wire carefully laid, with an arrow carefully aimed. Garrett never expects himself to be on the end of such ambushes, though here it’s with words, an argument he’s sure he’s not meant to hear. 

“How many times will you make this same decision?” Elthina’s voice comes first, makes Garrett freeze just out of view, “You ask for the Maker a path in life and then turn your face away when it no longer interests you.”

“The Maker gives us choices so we can decide our own path--”

“He places temptations in our way to see that we’re strong enough to resist them,” Elthina cuts Sebastian off and Garrett makes his way up the rest of the stairs quietly, so as not to alert her. She stands with her back to him, her spine stiff. The air around her practically prickles, “First it was resentment, then it was vengeance. Why this time, Sebastian? For Starkhaven?”

“No,” Sebastian says. He meets Garrett’s gaze and smiles, “For Hawke.”

* * *

Leaving Kirkwall is something long overdue. Garrett and Sebastian go together, hand in hand, the city shaking behind them. Garrett breathes easier without Kirkwall’s chains around him; there’s glimpses of the wild young thing Sebastian used to be without the Chantry to tame him.

They don’t go to Starkhaven. The road takes them to the spaces between the city states: the wilds between Kirkwall and Tantervale; a frothing white stretch of the Minanter river between Starkhaven and Ansburg; a long forgotten cottage by the grey pebbled coast between Ostwick and Hercinia. The sky, fair and open, is the only limit for them.

“Where do you want to go next?” Garrett asks, watching as Sebastian dresses. He moves to wrap his arms around Sebastian’s waist and hides his face in the soft linen of his shirt; he wishes that Sebastian was not so bound to the earth, that magic could be shared.

“I’ve heard good things about Ferelden,” Sebastian says, “Birthplace of Andraste.” He laughs when Garrett squeezes him around the waist, “Birthplace of  _ you.” _

He’s quiet then, leaves his shirt unlaced at the collar, choosing instead to close his hands over Garrett’s wrists. He sighs as Garrett presses kisses to his neck, a contented sound.

“I don’t mind where we go,” he says finally, “Ferelden. Ostwick. Beyond the Amaranthine Ocean. So long as I’m with you.”

They set out when the sun is high, with no particular destination in mind, drunk on the freedom found in exile, giddy on what love brings. Before them, the whole world unfurls, like a flower, like a story, like wings.


End file.
